Jorge Carrera Andrade Poems

COMRADES: the world is built upon our dead
and our feet have created all the roads.
Also, beneath every sky, there is not an inch of shadow
...

Fruit seller church
seated at the corner of life:
crystal orange windows,
...

You turn into a plant on the coasts of time.
With a chalice of round sky
and tunnel for traffic,
...

In bookstores there are no books,
in books no words,
in words no essence:
...

You, panther and statue, angel of fruit,
sexual bread shop, monument of wheat,
with throat pierced by the dart
...

The world is covered with cradles
that sing in the night.
...

Without knowing my number,
enclosed by walls and borders,
I walk around with a prisoner's moon
...

The window born of a desire for sky
has stationed itself in the black wall like an angel:
it's friend to man,
...

My life was a geography
I surveyed over and over again,
a book of maps or dreams.
...

My shadow, penetrated by dewy pastures,
by constellations imprisoned in farmhouses,
the breathing of sleeping men
...